


Like the Cycle of the Seasons

by Jaina_Pridemoore



Series: If You Look for the Light [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Air Nomad Genocide (Avatar), Air Nomads (Avatar), Airbending & Airbenders, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Not-so-natural disasters, Reincarnation, Sandbending & Sandbenders, Several different origin stories at once, Sun Warriors - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:07:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaina_Pridemoore/pseuds/Jaina_Pridemoore
Summary: Aang is just slightly less stealthy while eavesdropping on the elders, Gyatso goes to speak to him a few hours earlier, and the Avatar's destiny is forever altered— for better or worse.Or: glimpses of the Avatars of the Hundred Years War, from Air Nomad to Sun Warrior.
Relationships: Aang & Gyatso (Avatar)
Series: If You Look for the Light [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1960024
Comments: 1
Kudos: 25





	Like the Cycle of the Seasons

“You cannot keep protecting him from his destiny.”

Gyatso had always thought that Monk Tashi was a bit _direct,_ for an airbender. 

“Gyatso,” said Pasang, “I know you mean well, but you are letting your affection for the boy cloud your judgement.”

“All I want is what is best for him,” said Gyatso. 

“But what we _need_ is what is best for the world.” Pasang looked down for a moment in thought. “The Avatar will be sent to the Eastern Air Temple— to complete his training with a different Master.” 

Gyatso closed his eyes to hide the sudden ache in his chest, and bowed in acquiescence. 

Then he heard the faintest rustling sound, like leaves caressed by a breeze. 

Leaves such as those of the ivy that grew just outside. 

“I will tell him,” said Gyatso.

  
  


When he stepped into Aang’s room, the boy was folding his spare robes into a satchel.

“Gyatso!” Aang leapt to his feet and pulled the bag behind him. “I… thought you were too busy for Pai Sho today?”

He wouldn’t meet Gyatso’s eye. 

The old monk considered the boy he had raised— the slight slump of his narrow shoulders, the lines of tension just below the point of his arrow… 

Gyatso sighed, and shut the door behind him. “You should probably wait until after nightfall.” 

“Whaaat do you mean?” Aang’s eyes darted around the room. “Wait? Wait for what?”

“Aang.” He stepped forward, and settled his hands on the boy's shoulders. “I won’t let them take you away from me.” 

At last Aang met his gaze, eyes wide— and in a very small, uncertain voice, asked: “You won’t?”

“Oh, my boy.” Gyatso pulled him into a tight embrace. “Of _course_ not.”

Aang felt so small in his arms. Even with the echoes of Roku Gyatso sometimes saw in the boy, it was still hard to believe sometimes. 

So much power in such a tiny frame… 

Gyatso sighed. 

“You have a great destiny before you, Aang. But you are still just a boy, and you deserve time to grow up and have _fun_ before you must shoulder the weight of the world.”

“But— but the Council already voted…” 

“Yes.” Gyatso pulled back, and smoothed down the wrinkles he’d put in Aang’s robes. “Which is why I am coming with you.” 

Aang blinked. Then his eyes went wide as fruit-pies, and his satchel fell to the ground. “You— but you’re a _Master!”_

“Yes, we have that in common.” 

“But— what about Earthly Attachment?”

Gyatso smiled, and sat on Aang’s bed. “Do you want to know a secret?” 

The boy hesitated, but then nodded. 

“The Avatar is not the only one connected to all four elements. There is earth inside each one of us, and water, and fire as well.” 

“Yeah, bones and blood and chi, I know, but—” 

“Aang. If we were naturally inclined to non-attachment, would we have to strive toward it?” 

“...oh.” 

“Ideals are not prizes to be claimed or goalposts to be passed. They are meant to guide us, even when they remain, in some part, always beyond our reach.” 

“The journey,” said Aang, “not the destination.” 

“And we will be going on a most wonderful journey.” Gyatso squeezed his shoulder. “Pack light.”

Just after sundown, a small shape crept out of one of the windows and leapt, floating like a breeze-borne leaf down to the eastern balcony. As they touched down, another figure slipped out of the shadows of the tower and approached. For a moment the two stood together, watching the last rays of light bloom pink and purple on the horizon. 

Then the smaller of the two raised a small object to his lips, and blew. To human ears, no sound escaped— but to the ears of their large, furry friend, the call rang out loud and clear. 

As they flew away, Aang turned to watch his home shrink smaller and smaller, until those familiar spires were lost in the mist. 

Two days later, the sky turned red. 

  
  
  


*****

  
  
  


Tsering ran.

His chest burned, and the hard earth hurt his feet, but Monk Tsomo hadn’t stopped running, was running _slower_ so they could all keep up, so he couldn’t stop. Not yet. 

Trees rushed past, blurry in the twilight. Branches stung his face and arms, and roots snagged his feet, sending him stumbling, somersaulting, and leaping forward again. 

He’d always wanted to travel the lowlands. But _not like this._

If they’d just let him grab his glider—!

A cry rang out through the forest, and Monk Tsomo spun, and Tsering followed his gaze— Jampa was leaning against a tree, clutching baby Rinchen to his heaving chest, face shining with sweat and lined with pain—

“My ankle—” he gasped, “Tsomo, you must—” 

“No!” Tsomo leapt, over the heads of the other boys, and landed silently before him— “We are _not_ leaving _anyone else_ behind!” 

“Tsomo, _please_ —” 

A shout echoed through the trees. 

Tsering’s heart _thudded_ in his chest, and he turned to look—

Firelight. A dozen points of firelight, spread out in long line through the trees, bobbing as they grew closer. 

Torches. 

Namgyal cried out, Nanzin sobbed, and Tsering stumbled back, breath not coming fast enough or deep enough and he could still _feel_ the smoke in his lungs, could still see the orchards _burning—_

_“There!”_

Tsering jolted, but— that hadn’t come from the soldiers, and—

—he _knew_ that voice. 

The air stirred, cooling his sweat and fluttering through his robes and he looked up— just in time to see a sky bison descend into the clearing, a small orange figure leaping from the saddle—

_“Aang!”_

“Tsering!” the older boy jogged to a stop in front of him, wide eyes taking in the sweat and the soot and the fear— “We came as soon as we saw the— the fires, are you alright? What’s—” 

A wizened hand settled on his shoulder. 

“Time is short,” said Monk Gyatso. “All of you, get on the bison.”

They didn’t have to be told twice. A dozen terrified boys rushed toward Appa, some leaping into the saddle, others climbing, others picking up the youngest and passing them up—

All while the torches drew closer. 

Tsering could hear the soldiers, now, stomping through the underbrush, shouting to each other in harsh, angry firespeak. 

“Hey.” hands found his shoulders and turned him, away from the firelight and towards Aang. Tsering looked up at the young master’s shaky smile, and felt himself start to cry. 

“Hey hey hey, it’s alright!” Aang’s voice was shaking, his eyes wide. “It’s— all gonna be alright, Tsering. Can you climb, or do you need help?”

“I— um.” Tsering realized he was shaking. 

“Hey, I’ve got you, just— here, I’ll give you a boost.” Aang led him toward the bison and crouched, lacing his fingers together into a foothold. 

Tsering’s limbs felt like lead as he stepped into it, and when he pushed off with his back leg, he almost fell— but a strong hand grabbed his wrist from above, and another curled under his arm, and then Monk Tsomo was pulling him up over the lip of the saddle—

And falling back into it. 

Tsering blinked. 

There was— something sticking out of Tsomo’s _chest_ — and he was grabbing at it, coughing, and when he breathed there was a _wet_ sound—

A gust of wind rushed through the clearing, strong enough to _push_ Tsering forward, and there came the sound of many small wooden objects clattering to the hard-packed earth. 

_“Aang,”_ he heard Monk Gyatso say, _“it is time for you to leave.”_

_“...what?”_

A dark stain was spreading from the _thing_ in Monk Tsomo’s chest, and leaking out of his mouth when he coughed, soaking his robes—

_“You must get them to safety.”_

_“What about **you??** ” _

Another gust, more things clattering—

_“I will hold them off for as long as I can.”_

_“But—”_

_“They need you, Aang.”_

Tsomo shuddered, choked on the— on the _blood_ —

_“I— I don’t—”_

_“The **world** needs you.” _

_“Gyatso…”_

_“Aang. I will always be with you.”_

Monk Tsomo stopped breathing. 

The firelight flared brighter, wood popped and crackled, and many voices joined in a rough cry—

The air stirred, and then Aang was there, leaping into the saddle—

“Hey guys, just hold on, I’m gonna get—”

And freezing as his eyes fell on Tsomo. 

“Aang—” Tsering couldn’t breathe— “I-I think—”

But Aang wasn’t listening. 

One moment he was standing over the body, still and wide-eyed. 

The next he was glowing brighter than the moon. 

His face contorted in pain and rage, white light blazing in his eyes and tattoos—

Tsering flinched back, but Aang was already gone, spinning through the air past Gyatso, towards the soldiers, gale force-winds tearing stones from the earth and branches from the trees—

 _“Aang!”_ Gyatso rushed after him.

“Appa!” Monk Jampa’s voice was hoarse as he climped toward the bison’s head— **_“Yip yip!”_ **

They lifted off just in time to avoid a wave of flame. Appa roared and lurched, the children screamed, and Tsering scrambled to the edge of the saddle. 

He saw the fire whirl out in a great ring, lighting up the trees like matchsticks. In its wake, huge chunks of earth ripped from the smoldering ground. And a the center, through the burning canopy, Lobsand could see that unearthly glow. 

It took him a moment to even notice the balloons— but then he was ducking down, heart pounding and hands trembling, as he watched a half-dozen of them converge over the chaos, firing more of those harpoons down into the growing inferno—

And there in the distance, framed by snowy peaks, the Temple burned like a torch, filling the sky with firelit smoke. 

Tsering didn’t remember much, after that.

  
  
  


In an igloo far to the south, a baby cried out for the first time. 

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


Late in the eighth year of Endless Noon Campaigns, the Fire Navy warship _Umihebi_ was lost with all hands while ferrying captured waterbenders to Baizhen Prison. 

While it _was_ somewhat odd that it sank so far from the polar ice, where the Winter Folk typically proved effective against vessels of its class, it was not the only ship to be lost that year, and despite how far Fire Nation military engineering had come since the beginning of Sozin’s reign, mechanical complexity did seem go hand in hand with potential complications. Thus the War Cabinet marked it off as a tragic accident, notified the families, arranged for the appropriate honors, and promptly forgot about it. 

Without any news of the water Avatar’s appearance or defeat, as there had been for their predecessor, the Fire Lord continued to focus his nation’s might on the Water Tribes. 

The officials responsible for this oversight were eventually executed— but by then the Fire Nation had much bigger problems.

  
  
  


*******

  
  
  


**17 AG**

**Si Wong Desert**

  
  
  


Tsering was keeping the sails full when he saw it. Just a glint out on the dunes, there and gone again, but worth scouting all the same. A glint like that could mean metal or glass— one of which was precious to the Tribes, the other of which meant travelers. Tsering might not always agree with how his adopted family _handled_ travelers, but they _did_ need to know who was walking the sands. 

Maintaining the whirlwind with one hand, he looked over his shoulder at Ameqran, and signed _Maybe-travelers-northwest._

Ameqran signed _Understood,_ and heaved on the steering stick. 

It was past noon when they found the first bodies. 

There were three of them, huddled together and all but roasted by the sun. An empty waterskin lay half-buried in the sand beneath them… and a few dozen yards east, an oddly-shaped lump marred the desert. 

_Ostrich-horse,_ he recalled, regarding the withered thing. 

Its rider had made it a half-league before succumbing. 

The further east they sailed, the more bodies they found, laid out in a long, scattered line. Most of them had been on foot. Some lay alone, others in pairs or small groups. Every so often there was an abandoned ostrich-horse cart, full of uneaten rice and empty water jugs, its owners a half-league or so ahead. 

And then, through his spyglass, he spotted a covered wagon. 

With a final gust, he switched with Khedduj and leapt from the ‘sailer, landing lightly beside what was left of the ostrich-horses— and went still. 

Someone was whimpering, inside the wagon. 

Tsering hesitated, for a moment. 

This would all be very elaborate, for a Fire Nation trap… but he hadn’t lived this long by being optimistic. 

Quiet as he could, he slid his khanjar from its sheath, and crept forward. 

Another whimper, and the sound of cloth-on-wood, a quiet thump… 

With one quick motion, he leapt up onto the driver’s bench and swept the curtain aside. 

And immediately felt very bad for looming with a deadly weapon. 

The poor woman inside flinched away, sunken eyes wide with fear, and hugged her child close. They couldn’t have been older than five, but this whole situation screamed _refugee,_ and that could seriously mess with a kid’s growth. 

The rest of the wagon held only a bedroll, satchel, and empty jugs. 

The child squirmed in their mother’s arms, but she held their wavy-haired head close to her chest, preventing them from looking at… what probably _did_ look like impending death. 

Tsering sheathed his blade, and slowly, so as not to alarm her, tugged the cheche down to bare his face. 

“I’m not here to hurt you,” he said in clumsy, unpracticed Chinish. “Just pays to be cautious.” 

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. It looked like it hurt. 

Tsering knelt, and untied the waterskin from his hip. “Here, you—”

“N...no…” the woman’s voice was like sandpaper. “Please…” 

She nodded at the child… and Tsering’s heart sank into his belly. 

He set the waterskin down and crept forward, hands wide open in peace. 

For a long moment, the woman stared at him, gaze dull and half-distant. Then she unclenched her too-thin hands from the child’s tunic, and let them fall limply away. 

Tsering’s heart lurched— but she was still breathing, still watching. 

Just too weak to act. 

_Damn them._

The child stirred weakly, head rolling against her bony chest— but was either asleep or too parched to move. 

Tsering reached out, and gently wrapped his hands around the child’s scrawny torso. Wincing at the feel of their ribs against his palms, he eased them into his arms, and caught their head when it lolled back. 

It was bad… but not as bad as it could’ve been. Their lips were chapped to cracking, but their cheeks still had some healthy color in them, and weren’t too hollow. 

The mother must’ve been starving herself to feed them. 

“Please…” she rasped, even as Tsering trickled water into their mouth— which made him look up, confused as to—

“Please… take him.” 

Ah. 

Hogmonkeys. 

Was this how the Tribe felt, when he and the other boys stumbled into their canyon? 

Tsering looked down at the child in his arms. 

The too-bony, half-starved, soon-to-be-orphaned child in his arms. 

His skin was a shade or two darker than their mother’s, and his thick brown hair was wavier, almost forming little ringlets. He could’ve had a Si Wong ancestor, somewhere in their family tree. 

That must have been why he seemed so familiar.

“Please…” 

Tsering met the mother’s eyes again. They were more distant than ever. 

“His name?” 

“Jia… hao…” she whispered, head lolling sideways. 

“Jiahao.” Tsering dripped a bit more water between the boy’s lips, and was relieved to see him swallow. “I’ll take care of him. You have my word.” 

Her cracked lips twitched into the slightest smile, and then she was gone. 

Tsering bowed his head, and prayed for both mother and child. 

As the final syllables past his lips, Jiahao stirred, eyes fluttering open. 

Tsering couldn’t recall ever seeing that particular hazel before… and yet as the boy looked drowsily up at him, he couldn’t shake that odd feeling of familiarity. 

Perhaps Jiahao felt it too— for he smiled, and relaxed, and went back to sleep. 

Or maybe the kid was just hallucinating. Who's to say? 

  
  
  
  
  


*******

  
  
  
  
  


**35 AG**

  
  
  
  


They were a half-league away when the Caldera exploded. 

The city, already sundered and burning, suddenly _bulged_ — and then burst open. In an instant, a massive plume of ash filled the sky, surpassing the height of the airship— 

_“Brace!”_ someone cried. 

Azulon’s hands were, thankfully, already white-knuckled on the railing. 

His ears were not quite so prepared. 

It was like every clap of thunder he’d ever caused all at once, striking the airship with physical force and sending pain lancing through his skull. Azulon flinched, and swayed as the deck bobbed beneath him, but held fast, welded to the spot by the sight before him. 

The ash was still rising, unfurling among the scattered clouds like milk in tea, but _below…_

There was nothing left. 

The Caldera was a lake of glowing magma, so hot it seemed to ripple before his eyes, overflowing down the Imperial Stair and oozing toward the harbor below, where a swarm of smaller ships were crowding each other in a desperate rush to escape. 

He could already tell they weren’t going to make it. 

Smoke billowed from the edges of the lava flow, and in that haze he could just barely make out tiny flares of light as row after row of wooden buildings ignited. 

Through the ringing in his ears, he could faintly hear Iroh crying.

Iroh, who hadn’t even started walking yet. Who would not even remember the palace that was his birthright, would never look upon the tapestries of his forefathers, their trophies, or their achievements, would never sit upon the Phoenix Throne… 

A thousand years of history and culture, gone. 

The treasury, gone. 

A decade’s worth of food stores, the hub of all military communications, the crown jewel of their mighty empire… 

**_Gone._ **

Thousands upon thousands of loyal, able-bodied children of Agni, burned alive by _hot earth._

All because of that insolent, dirt-born _sand savage_ —

Azulon took a deep breath. 

He almost admired the audacity of it.

Almost. 

Light footsteps tapped the deck. 

Red silk shifted in the corner of his eye. 

His sister-in-law laid trembling fingers upon the railing— and flinched back. 

Azulon looked down, and saw the metal glowing around his hands. 

He let go, and took a moment to reign in his qi. 

Then he tore his eyes from the ruin of his home, and turned to face her. 

Her eyes were wide and red, her tear-streaked face twitching and tensing with the force of her anguish, her slender shoulders hunched forward… 

Azulon forgot, sometimes, that she wasn’t even twenty yet. 

It was very apparent now. 

“Sister,” he said. 

She did not react. 

_“Lo.”_

Her hands clenched and unclenched, then disappeared into her sleeves. 

“Look at me.” 

Her back went stiff and straight. She turned— and her gaze sharpened into a glare. 

“Lo…”

_“Why?”_

Her voice was like broken glass. 

...really? 

She wanted to do this _now?_

“Why what?” he asked. “Why did I not accept an unlawful challenge from a notoriously bloodthirsty Avatar when my sole heir is not yet one year old?”

Her jaw clenched. Her brows furrowed. 

“Or,” he continued, ire leaking into his voice, “are you asking me why I prioritized the lives of my immediate family and cabinet members over that or a single junior advisor?” 

“There was _time!”_

“The city was in chaos _._ The chances of finding her in time were negligible, and I had to cut our losses. Do not allow grief to usurp your judgement.”

 _“Usurp my—“_ If Lo had been a firebender, the airship might not have survived. “Thousands of people are _dead!_ The heart of the Fire Nation has been _burned out_ — all because **_you wouldn’t_ _fight_ —” **

He caught her chin in one hand.

Then he inhaled, and slowly began to heat that hand. 

“My dear sister,” he said, he said quietly, “ _do_ take a moment to consider how fortunate you are that administrators of your skill are currently in short supply.” 

“His Majesty is a _paragon_ of mercy," she hissed. 

A little more heat into the hand. 

Lo’s features began to pinch in discomfort. 

“I,” said Azulon, “am presiding over the most devastating defeat in Fire Nation history. I cannot even research which other disasters might compare _because that knowledge is burning._ The heart of our culture and the mind of our military is _gone_ , and you _dare_ waste my time blaming me for the actions of our enemies? **_Pull yourself together!”_ **

He wasn’t sure if she was shaking from pain or from rage. Perhaps both.

But she lowered her eyes, and gritted out: 

“As the Fire Lord commands.” 

He released her. 

Lo dropped to her knees, and then into a full kowtow. 

Azulon took a deep breath. The air he exhaled rippled with heat. 

“Your fury is justified,” he said. “You simply lack a proper task to channel it into.” 

Lo rose off the deck but kept her head bowed, sleek black hair a curtain over her face.

“Lo,” he said, “we _will_ avenge her.” 

The girl’s hands clenched into fists on the metal of the deck. “Not even the Avatar could have survived that, My Lord. He is dead.” 

_“Tafsut_ is dead. The _Avatar_ is being reborn as we speak— as one of my loyal subjects.”

Lo said nothing. 

“Draft a decree,” he said, “and a letter to the Sages. Every child of Agni born between this day and the Solstice is to be tested at their local temple. When the Avatar is identified, they will be passed into the custody of the Imperial Guard and brought to the—“ Damn. “—to my residence, to be raised in the safety and security befitting such a… national _treasure.”_

“Yes, Fire Lord.”

Azulon turned back to the rail, and looked down on the smoldering ruin of his home. 

Even burning with fury at what the Avatar had taken from them, he could already see the years unfolding before him— establishing a new capital, housing the displaced, increasing taxes on the Colonies, redeploying entire armies to suppress the resistance and guard against opportunistic attacks by the dirt peasants and snow savages… 

Azulon did not notice the rail once more heating beneath his hands. 

He had been winning. 

He had been _winning,_ the Southern waterbenders all but extinct, Agna Qel’a and Ba Sing Se almost within his reach… 

Below, the lava finished engulfing the harbor district and spilled into the sea, sending up great geysers of steam.

The fleeing vessels looked so small, from here. 

“We will find them,” he said. “We will teach them the truth of the world. Loyalty, honor, and strength. We will make the new Avatar what Roku _should have been…_ and with them at the head of our armies, all will bow to the primacy of Fire.” 

  
  


But it was not to be. 

Perhaps it was luck, perhaps it was the will of the spirits, or of one spirit in particular… 

Perhaps it doesn’t matter _how._

Deep in the jungle of an all-but-forgotten isle, far from anyone loyal to the throne, a child cried out for the first time— and a flame that had outlasted entire civilizations flared a sudden, blinding white.

**Author's Note:**

> I realize this raises some huge questions as to wtf Jiahao/Tafsut got up to-- I'm planning to answer those questions indirectly, as Jiahao/Tafsut advises their successor much like Roku advised Aang.


End file.
